


Next to Godliness

by syrupwit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Gore, Gen, Outlast Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Miles finds himself pursued once more through the asylum.





	1. Oneshot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murkoffjanitor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=murkoffjanitor).



> This is a gift for murkoffjanitor on Tumblr, per their request for a work featuring Miles and their OC, Alex. He was fun to write, and I hope I did his character justice. Happy Outlast Secret Santa!

Damp, squeaky footsteps echoed down the hall.

_Squelch. Sloosh. Squelch. Sloosh._

"Excuse me! Sir?"

Miles froze in the act of squeezing through a gap between shelf and wall, but only for a moment. Then he wriggled and sidestepped as if his life depended on it.

The man who had just addressed him bore significantly less resemblance to a Golden Age horror movie monster than the other asylum residents Miles had encountered so far. Aside from the bloodstains on his uniform, he looked almost like a normal person. The apparatus he was wheeling behind him even looked like an ordinary mop and bucket. After Trager, though, Miles wasn't taking any chances.

Miles ran down the hallway and burst through the first accessible door, slamming it behind him and kicking a couple of boxes in front of it for good measure. He looked for a hiding place in the room and found none. A vent on the ceiling hung open, however, and with some effort Miles pushed a crate over to it and climbed up.

Several twists and turns later, he dropped down into another room. A quick night vision scan revealed no other occupants, unless the pile of viscera in the corner qualified. Miles strode to the door and opened it...right into the mop-bearer's face.

 _Wham!_   In what might have made for a subtle and unwitting act of foreshadowing three hours earlier, Miles banged the door shut so fast he almost caught his remaining fingers in it. He ran back to the vent and started trying to jump up.

"Wait, I'm not going to hurt you,” said the man. “Sir, if you would—"

With a grunt, Miles managed to pull himself up and into the vent. He clanged and huffed his way back to the previous room, whence he emerged into the empty hallway. He proceeded cautiously, testing doors as he went (all locked, or blocked, or with sickening repetitive thuds issuing from behind them, no thanks). The hallway bent at a right angle and continued past a stairwell. Miles tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked.

The stairwell on the floor above was blocked by assorted furniture, so he headed two flights downstairs. The stairwell there was inaccessible too. However, a door to the side led to a small enclosed courtyard. Miles searched and found that a window on the second floor was open. He located a convenient stepladder, placed it as close to the window as possible, and spent a good fifteen frustrated minutes attempting to scale the wall. At last he got a decent handhold and clambered through the window.

The corridor was dark and silent. Miles held his breath, listening. Nothing. He peeked around the corner. Nothing. He took a tentative step out, then another, then another. He was beginning to think he'd gotten away when he heard familiar footsteps.

The floor was slippery, mostly due to the puddles of blood and guts strewn around it, hidden in the dark. Miles learned this the hard way. He ran forward, slid, and fell flat on his back. With the wind knocked out of him, he had no choice but to wait and listen, heart pounding, as those footsteps approached.

_Squelch. Sloosh. Squelch. Sloosh._

Pause.

"Sir," came the man’s voice once more, sounding resigned. "I’m just asking you to wipe your feet. You've been tracking blood and mud everywhere. If you'll pardon the expression, it's a bitch to clean."

He held a rag out so Miles could see. "Will you at least consider using this? It'd make my job a lot easier."

"What is your job?" asked Miles, mouth dry.

"I'm the janitor here at the asylum."

"Ah," said Miles. "And you'll leave me alone if I take this?" He rose into a crouch, keeping his front toward the man and his legs tensed, though his movements were slow.

"...Uh. Yes?" The man's eyebrows creased in puzzlement. He had a pleasant, open face, with an expression of vague worry that might have been constant even before all hell broke loose in Mount Massive. He looked  _nice_ , like a guy who'd let you cut in front of him in the checkout line because you only had two items. Not the kind of person who in any way deserved to come into contact with Murkoff or its products. It was a pity that he was now totally mind-warped and planning to turn Miles into a living broom or something.

"Okay," said Miles.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

They regarded each other for a few suspenseful seconds. Then Miles grabbed the rag and sprinted down the hall, splashing blood and entrails behind him.

"Hey!" the janitor called. "Don't forget to actually wipe your.... Oh, well. Thanks, I guess."

Miles had already gone too far to hear it. Sighing, the janitor took up his mop and began to clean the mess. There was still a long night to come.

 

*******

 

**Six hours later...**

 

*******

Dawn seeped through the grounds of Mount Massive Asylum like a pigmented liquid through an absorbent material. The first faint suggestions of light from outside found Alex the janitor wandering the Male Ward, scrubbing at a large stain on his front. There had been...jars, in what was left of the makeshift hospital area, and he had accidentally spilled the unspeakable contents of one on himself. He longed for a shower or even just a change of clothes. But what else was new?

Tired and lost in thought, Alex hardly noticed the room darkening or the air starting to hum. At least, until the ragged shape of a man materialized beside him.

The eyes that met his were completely black. Oil dripped from the man's mangled jacket, though Alex didn't see it hit the floor. An odd metallic stench surrounded him, or maybe it was a sound—a fusion between smell and sound, the rust-scabbed, tarry droning of a billion bees. The swarm.

Alex swallowed. He cleared his throat. It took him a few tries to speak.

"Hel-hello? Can I help you?"

The man produced an item from within his jacket and extended it towards Alex. It appeared to be some wadded-up fabric. After a moment, Alex recognized it as one of his cleaning rags, saturated with blood and other substances. He recalled giving such a rag to someone, ages ago. Who had that person been?

Alex told the man, "That's all right. You can keep it."

The man's nose wrinkled, like he didn't understand what Alex was saying or why. He thrust the rag forward again.

"Keep it. Please, I insist."

The man let the rag splat to the ground.

"Okay, I'm guessing you don't want it? That's...okay. I'll take care of it then." Alex held up both hands in a placating gesture, then bent to retrieve the rag. He gripped it gingerly. "I'll, uh. I'll just pop this in the wash."

"Thanks," said the man, or might have said. If he'd had a voice, there would have been a sheepish note in it. The air was briefly choked with buzzing, thick with something that both was and wasn't smoke, and then he was on his way.

Alex stood still until the images flashing beneath his eyelids slowed, still holding the rag between thumb and index finger. The man's abrupt departure had jogged his memory. Of course. The Father's loud, messy apostle. So that was what had become of him, god help him. Though it seemed that one already had.

"At least the Walrider doesn't leave footprints," Alex reflected. With that cheering idea in mind, he set off toward the laundry room. 

 


	2. Bonus Snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short bonus snippet set post-game.

"You did all this?" Miles gazed around at the assortment of hanging plants and succulents that crowded Alex's spare room. He sucked in an unnecessary breath, enjoying how the fresh air filled his lungs. After weeks in Leadville, he wasn't used to all this oxygen. The initial adjustment to lower altitudes had admittedly been difficult, but the Walrider had a steep learning curve.

"Er, yes," said Alex, a bit pink in the face. Although they'd established without a doubt that Miles wasn't here to kill him, he kept getting flustered. "Here's your coffee."

Miles took it with a nod and settled into a chair. Alex remained standing, cradling his own mug in his hands. They shared a moment of companionable quiet that stretched into two.

At last Miles said, "Let's talk about what you can do to help take down Murkoff."


End file.
